


Forgotten

by nindroidzane



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Blood, Death, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:09:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27121600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nindroidzane/pseuds/nindroidzane
Summary: Moderate Lee is the last living centrist. Whatever will he do?
Relationships: Libertarian/Ancap (briefly), Moderate Lee/Horseshoe Centrist (mentioned)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 24





	Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe this guy's still alive

Anxiety raced through Moderate. In fact, he hadn't felt at peace since Radical Centrist had called them in to that first meeting, to tell them all about Dead Centrist's passing. 

His gaze drifted to the head of the table, where a pair of his former leader's mismatched sunglasses rested, cold and untouched. The ones he'd usually used were lost forever, just as the centrist himself was, ever since he had merged with Jreg and become Accelerationism. Moderate sniffled, looking back down to his small, cracked phone screen, where a live broadcast of the fight between the extremists and the giant lookalike of Radical Centrist was playing. 

It was sure to destroy them all if it won, which is why he'd run away from the International Union of Nationalists base when one of those frightening monsters had burst in. But still, he couldn't help a small part of himself from rooting it on, encouraging it in his mind to tear apart the extremists like they'd murdered everyone he'd ever cared about. 

But that was irrational, he'd tell himself. Extreme, even. No, the rational thing to do was to hope for the extremists to win, so that all of the ideologies, himself included, could survive without becoming monsters, shells of their former selves. 

With a shuddering sigh, he continued watching, more scared for his life than ever.

•••••••••••••

Numbness slowly spread through Moderate. A dull ache sat like a lump in his chest, and even drinking water felt like acid going down his throat. It had been weeks, months, even, since the extremists defeated Accelerationism, and the world had rejoiced. 

The world, that is, excluding the centrists. 

They were all dead. 

Moderate was alone. 

The extremists didn't seem to take any interest in tracking him down and killing him after they'd taken down Accelerationism, even though he'd only been hiding out in the Overton Window, and it would've been a nice wrap up to their Centricide. He assumed they thought he wasn't threatening enough to bother with, or that maybe they'd even forgotten he existed entirely. 

It didn't matter. If they busted down the doors right now, with guns aimed at his head, he wouldn't even flinch. The anxieties were gone, his mind too drained to keep up with it anymore, and all that was left were pale imitations of his old emotions and ideals. 

Was it rational to collect souvenirs of all his old friends and place them at their spots on the table? Probably not, and it certainly wasn't productive. But it made him feel a little okay, looking down the table to see Horseshoe Centrist's hat, or Anti-Radical's knife. Political Nihilist had left some old band t-shirt behind in a drawer, and all he could find of Ape Political was some fur snagged on the chipping wooden chair, but a small piece of each of them was all he needed. 

Aside from the various scattered photos, of course. They used to stay tucked away in a drawer, since looking at them only made him cry for hours. But these days, it was safe to lay them out across the table and at least be able to indulge in the memories.

Horseshoe Centrist, kissing his cheek. Radical Centrist, dragging him along on one of his crazy ideas. 

He paused at the picture laid in the middle, the picture placed right in between four group photos of him and his centrist friends. 

The extremists, grinning and hugging and battered, posed in front of a giant wreckage of buildings. It was black and white and quite thin, since he'd cut it out of the newspaper. He wasn't really sure why he'd done that. But when he'd found it again, months later, he decided to put it at the center of all of his memories, a reminder of why everything had come to an end for him. 

It was with a bit of spite that he'd put it in the center, since they seemed to hate it there more than anywhere else. He knew they'd never even know about it, or about how much it hurt, or how wrong all of them were. They would never even get any comeuppance for what they'd done. 

But that was fine, really. Moderate was content to sit, numb, and wallow in his memories, until he wasted away and joined his friends again.

The centrist smiled softly. He would see them again soon. 

•••••••••••••

Anger coursed through Moderate. It burned through his veins, lapped at his heart like fire. It had been years since the extremists had conducted their little genocide, and he was still around. Still alive. And the centrists, all but him, were still dead. 

His teeth, chipped from gritting them, clenched hard, his jaw set, when he saw they were on the news again. 

It was the anniversary of their grand defeat of Accelerationism, and they were happy to report that they were feeling stronger and better than ever. It sickened him. He hated them so much. _So_ much.

A younger him would've been horrified. He probably hated them too "extremely", but he couldn't bring himself to give a fuck anymore. It wasn't even a passionate hate. It was a bitter one, built up from watching them build themselves up over the years, watching them be happy and enjoy their lives while he was stuck here with dusty old knickknacks where his friends should've been. 

Commie and Ancom were together. The International Union of Nationalists were still trying to achieve their shitty goals. Ancap and that awful husband of his were expanding Ancapistan all the time. 

He grit his teeth so hard he thought one would crack. _Libertarian_. If he'd joined them and just become a stupid neoliberal, maybe everyone would've been okay. Anti-Radical wouldn't have been shot to death by that greedy, selfish Ancap, at least. 

He wanted to slap himself for ever thinking those extremists had a valid reason for doing the shit that they did. Why did he ever want to compromise with them? Had he really been that stupid?

He slammed a fist down on the table, his phone bouncing slightly. Maybe if he hadn't been such a _coward_ they would've been okay. He was right there with Anti-Radical. He was right there with Horseshoe Centrist. He could've saved them.

The extremists carried on laughing and hugging and chatting. Moderate's gaze hardened. 

The centrists didn't have to die in vain. He could still finish what they started. 

•••••••••••••

A cold chill ran through Moderate. Warm blood decorated the grass, his clothes, the cowboy hat on his head. Ancap and Libertarian, away from Ancapistan on their twentieth or thirtieth honeymoon, lay splayed on their picnic blanket, the blood drenching their yellow business suits turned black under the moonlight. Anti-Radical's knife dripped with it, the handle clenched tight in Moderate's white-knuckled hand. 

He couldn't believe they hadn't had any security around. He couldn't believe he'd just _killed_ _them._ But there they were, tears streaked down Ancap's face from the sight of his beloved husband laying dead, Libertarian's eyes wide with shock at the sight of the centrist, brandishing a knife, eyes hidden behind Radical Centrist's spare sunglasses. He clenched the fur he'd stuck in his pocket, hoping for some comfort. Wondering why he wasn't really needing the comfort. 

The blood didn't show very well on Political Nihilist's black shirt, which was a relief. He didn't want to change out of it, not while he still had work to do. He wanted to keep every centrist close to him, so they could watch while he avenged them. Watch as the life drained from each extremists eyes. 

He gulped in some air, a faint trace of the rampant anxiety he'd used to feel making his heart pump faster. The others wouldn't be as easy as this, surely. It had taken a month of stalking Ancap's social media pages to find an opportunity to dispose of him, and even then he was sure he was walking into his death. But he'd done it. He'd killed him. And he'd even gotten his treacherous little husband as a bonus. 

Moderate smiled to himself. It was a faint, dead smile, cold under the harsh half moon. 

They'd been too cocky. The Centricide wasn't over. No, it was far from over, and he was planning on committing a little genocide of his own. 

It was time to get rid of the extremists. Once and for all.


End file.
